Super Sad APH France stories (multiple AUs)
by WhiskeyLiquor
Summary: Just as the title implies, this is going to be a collection of sad things with APH France as the main character. Triggers included are; blood, gore, death, cursing, sensitive material, etc.


**(Tw; death, blood, sensitive material)**

 **Human AU**

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It was now his second week of his third high school year, of course, there was an important event that happened before this. One that changed his life and the life of a young darling girl. Before this day, he had met someone very important. Being a student who moved from France to America, Francis Nicholas Bonnefoy had some problems settling in. Thankfully he had a very good friend and neighbor, a kind girl named Joan. Joan was a very sweet girl, a year ahead of Francis. As soon as he arrived five years ago she had taken him under her wing, showing him around the town and offering him someone to talk to. She was also (conveniently) interested in the French language and culture. They had made a deal, Francis would teach her French, and in exchange Joan would protect him from any bullies that might find it funny to mock a foreign kid. The two of them were thick as thieves, even after so many years had passed.

The day started out normal enough, Francis said goodbye to his parents and walked with Joan to school. They complained about teachers and homework, then joked around. By 10 am Francis was idly sitting in his seat and doodling on his paper. The History teacher in the front of the classroom droned on, unaware of the blank and sleep-deprived stares from his students. Francis stifled a yawn as the intercom came on.

"Attention all students and teachers: there is an intruder in the building. Please take necessary safety protica-"

Her voice was cut off by a loud bang and a thick bubbling sound before there was silence. Everyone was frozen, eyes wide and hands trembling. Then all hell broke out, people ran out of the classroom, heading towards the back entrance. Teachers were in the halls, attempting to control the students. Francis stood still by his desk, having jerked up but now unable to move. His legs were locked as if cement had replaced his muscles. He couldn't breathe, his lungs now filled with sticky syrup as bile crept up his throat.

"FRANCIS!"

Joan's voice. She was calling from him in the hallway, fighting through the crowd of panicked students, looking for him. Francis's body jerked, mouth made of cotton and glue.

"J-Jeanne-?!"

His voice was too faint, she couldn't hear him. His pitiful cry bounced around the room, but not even he could hear it. Francis's body trembled and his heart was racing, but his legs and arms were numb. He could do nothing, fear had him by the short hairs and his mind turned to static. The french lad collapsed, trembling and gasping for air that wouldn't enter his lungs.

The students ran, the loud sound of shots and screams clouded the air like black smoke. Soon the footsteps in the hallways had died down to one thudding pair of boots. They drew closer to the history classroom, and Francis looked up. In the doorway, stood a broad-shouldered man with emotionless eyes. In his hand, was a shotgun, which was raised and aimed at Francis. Sirens and heavy footsteps entered the school, but they were far away. A distant echo compared to the pounding blood in Francis's ears.

"DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING TOUCH HIM!"

The voice that sounded from the hallway was similar in fury to that of a mother lioness protecting her cub. Joan launched herself at the tall man, knocking him to the ground and clumsily skidding across the floor. She ran to Francis, eyes worried and wide. She kneeled next to him, and gently cupped his face in her hands. Francis was able to breathe again, taking in big gulps of air as he stared at her. His trembling stopped and his mouth twitched near the corners.

"Are you ok? Francis, we need to get out of here-"

The man staggered up. He words were incoherent, and Joan placed herself between him and Francis. The shotgun was lifted once again, but before he could shoot several bullets went through his chest. The man gurgled, blood pooling out of his mouth, he staggered forward and his eyes rolled back into his head. He fell to the ground. The low murmur of conversation from the police officers began, but neither highschooler heard.

Francis gulped, able to move once again. He smiled.

"We're safe! Jeanne, we're safe we're-"

He met Joan's eyes, which were wide and filled with tears. Slowly, she looked down, and his eyes followed. Blood stained her shirt, and she coughed, thick red liquid spewed onto the floor and dribbled down her chin. Francis screamed and caught her as she began to collapse. She was coughing and struggling to breathe, blood poured from her mouth and her gasps for air replaced the police conversation. Officers flocked around them, panicked as orders for medical attention were issued. It had been they who had shot her. Wounds inflicted by the carelessness of those who were supposed to protect her.

Joan let out a choked out sob and clinged to Francis's shirt. His hands pressed to her stomach wound and she lay in his lap, tears falling onto her cheeks. She whimpered and sobbed, begging him to stop the pain. Francis frantically screamed in French; for help, for god, for someone to do what he could not. The police ran off in search of a medic, shouting orders and barking commands. Joan's chest was frantically moving up and down as she gasped for air that refused to be sucked into her damaged lungs. Blood caught in her throat, blood pouring from her wounds, blood staining Francis's hands. She shook her head back and forth frantically and let out another wet howl of pain. Francis whispered many quick french words of comfort to her as he choked back his own weeping. Her eyes met with Francis's, and she shakily raised her hands. Fingertips tenderly stroked his hair and her palm cupped his jaw. Joan swallowed, and slowly shook her head. Her other hand pulled him closer, till his face was next to her own.

The police and medical officials arrived, to two dead bodies. One a burly, terrible man who took many lives and caused much grief. The other, a sweet girl, who's deathbed was the arms of her most beloved friend. It took three men to pull him away from her, and another two to force him into an ambulance. They had been concerned that he was hurt, because of all the blood on his body. Inside his screaming and keening, filled the metal vehicle, pitiful and distressed. They cleaned him up, even though he struggled. Struggled and fought as they washed his hands and arms. As they forced off his bloodied shirt. But he resisted the most when they tried to wipe away the vaguely lip shaped splotch of blood on his cheek, crying in french.

"Ne pas enlever son dernier cadeau pour moi!*"

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[*translation: Don't take away her last gift to me. (google translate was used, please inform me if incorrect)]

[Please notify me of any mistakes, thank you for reading!]


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